Hit
by witwit8
Summary: Gail get's punched in the face trying to help Holly out. Holly is... appreciative. M.


Author's Note: Here. Happy Valentine's, maybe? Almost 7500 words of smut. My boredom is good for writing, I guess.

Rating: M. Very, very M.

Synopsis: Gail gets punched helping Holly. Holly is… appreciative.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

* * *

You hiss as the cold ice settles heavily on your face, Holly's mouth twisting into an apologetic wince as she slowly mumbles an apology, alleviating the pressure a bit, pressing more gingerly against the already forming knot.

And even though you're in pain and a little embarrassed, you rush to reassure her of her innocence in this whole situation. It wasn't her fault that someone- some fuckboy douche bag- just hadn't taken no for an answer, wasn't her fault he'd followed her to the restroom only to be confronted by you- you who had watched him with thinly veiled rage from the place at your table. The one you'd reserved for the both of you after your embarrassing attempt at batting in the cages, the beer Holly had bribed you with to get back in said cages after your first failed and terrifying attempt resting on top of it.

You'd watched the scene with escalating anger and before you knew what had hit you, you were already up and out of your seat, following the man who you had witnessed harassing your friend mere moments before.

You'd reached the alcove where the bathroom was tucked into as quickly as you could, struggling to cut through the crowd for a moment and cursing as you lost sight of him. And you'd seen him reaching a ruddy hand out toward Holly, watched as she turned and registered the shock and slight flicker of fear as he confronted her.

And then you'd just acted, red haze fitting firmly over your consciousness, pale but steady hand reaching out to the bastard and jerking him away from her. You'd yelled- what, you still can't be sure- and then it became a bit hazy because, according to Holly, in an official statement, no less, he'd reared that ruddy (large, very large) fist toward your face and swung, the bastard's watch catching the skin outside or your eye. His fist connected in your eye socket, immediately swelling the skin there, blood pouring down your face, a loud thwack resounding in your skull, pain exploding. Your knees weakening, your body falling. And then the memories are all chaos and in and out darkness and her voice.

You come to a moment later, to Oliver and a handful of other officers surrounding you.

The value of drinking in a cop bar, you guess.

And then she's hovering over you and then pulling you up and telling you how, after you'd gone down, she's kneed the asshole where it hurt and grabbed the nearest cop she could find.

Pride swells in your chest now, even as you think about it.

And the guy was taken in for assault on an officer and all is well and good because they hadn't made you go to a hospital because you hadn't hit your head really and Holly had volunteered to stitch you up and look after you and she was a doctor after all.

So she had stitched you up and tutted over the large shiner you were now sporting and had sat you down on one of the bar stools in the kitchen that sat in front of the kitchenette and iced your eye and had apologized and apologized and, well, that's where you currently found yourself.

Holly pressing delicately at your face, one hand with ice and the other almost cradling your face, apologizing and thanking you all at once.

And this time instead of just shrugging it off, you rush your hands up to her face and make her look at you in the eye, steady her head and speak.

"Holly, it's not your fault some prick couldn't take no for a fucking answer. Not your fault he jacked me in the face. I mean, and you didn't even really need me to help you because, well, you took care of it yourself, you know."

You laugh almost uncomfortably when her eyes just dip down, so you scramble to make it better.

"Holly," you say almost pleadingly, waiting until she once more locks her watery eyes with yours.

"Hol… Look at me. I'm fine."

"But you- you could've really been hurt, you know? He could have really- "

Her tone is almost desperate, her eyes, though- pleading and something else you can't place but it makes your mouth run dry and your heart speed up and then you're speaking and trying to wrap your head around it all.

"But he didn't. I'm alright. Inspected me yourself, remember? And Hol... Even if- even if I wasn't, even if he had- had really hurt me, or, fuck- tried to kill me or whatever- it would be worth it in the end because it would mean that you- you know…"

Your tongue trips over the rest of your words, knowing that they might give you away in their sincerity, really, _really_ change everything, cross the line you'd since drawn in the sand between yourself and your friend. But the words tumble out of your mouth and smash into the silence, charging the air around yourself and the doctor in the mellow light of the kitchen.

"It would mean that you were safe… because Holly you are so important. Too important, to me. Kind of the most important. And tonight, I just saw that jerk go after you and then I saw red because the idea of someone hurting you… I can't. I just can't. You mean too fucking much."

And you watch as she visibly deflates at your words, her eyes slipping shut, head rocking forward to rest on yours, forehead to forehead. And you're breathing raggedly now and then your eyes are also falling shut because the weight of her is gone from your forehead, and you're instead feeling lips ghost along it, feeling those lips heave a shuddering sigh and an 'oh god' breathed against your skin as they start at your injured eye, dip down to your cheek, nuzzle along the slope of it, and then they're pressing delicately against the tip of your nose, pausing, her own staccato breaths pushing against your aching skin. And then you're barely thinking except for the repeating, resounding need echoing in your skull to take this moment- to take it and not fucking waste it so then your lips are blindly rooting for hers and you swear you're both breathing the same air for a moment but you can't be certain. But then, a moment later, you know you are because you finally, finally find her lips and you're kissing her. Honest to God kissing her. Not like the coat closet, not like the kiss she'd laid upon your head when she wrenched you up and off of the Penny's cold, dirty floor.

It's open and wet and wanting and unlike anything you've ever experienced and there's a moment- a pause- as you both register the feel and the weight of the moment. But it's over quickly because she's gasping and pushing forward and you're rushing and connecting your lips to hers once again, opening your mouth against hers, grasping her face with steadfast and sure hands.

You feel the heat of her tongue on your lips at the third open pass of your lips against hers, a rapid intake of breath shaking your chest and adding to the dull and thready ache already present there. But you ignore it and invite her in, your right hand venturing away from her face for a moment, finding its way to the front of her shirt, winding your fingers into the fabric and pulling her toward you with a grunted,

"Holly, come here-"

And you're shifting back a little in the chair, thankful for the fact that the bar chairs actually have backs on them, and pulling her into you, in between the vee of your legs all the while letting her tongue skate your wanting lips before delving into your mouth, tangling with yours once and then twice before retreating only to be chased back into her own mouth by your own questing tongue, the need to feel her, feel it lashed around your own, feel the groans of surprise, content, rumble out from deep within her chest is more important in that moment than anything else ever has been before.

And you're just pressing your lips- wet and wanting and needy- against hers over and over again, aching to get closer, to invade her every sense, to impair her every faculty just so she can feel a miniscule amount of what you're feeling for her right now, in the thrumming heaviness of your embrace.

And there's a clattering as she abandons the ice in her hand, the now cold palm and fingers claiming a spot in your long, mussed tresses pulling your face to her harder, her touch, her movements less hesitant and more resolute.

And she's speaking in between the connection of your lips, the words breathy and light.

"Gail," she's saying, gasping when you nip her bottom lip in reply, "Gail, what- God, what are we doing?"

And you're smiling then, coasting that hand firmly planted in the center of her chest- coasting down over soft curves, then up and over a steep valley, only to stop, stroke and cup the heavy breast you find there. She moans then, her teeth now finding their way down your throat, sucking, laving the spot with, God, that tongue that you've grown to adore in the last few minutes, before biting down with some force, backing away, only to scrape against the length of your neck once gain.

And you're kneading her breast and cursing your position there suddenly because you can't pull her flush against you, can't get her fucking closer to where you really want her- because this, she, all of it, feels so fucking good and all you want to do is what you've been dreaming about for weeks- the dreams that have plagued you about warm and tan and muscled skin, searching fingers, lips and tongue. Dreams that left you aching in the mornings and droopy eyed at work and so fucking confused because this was Holly, your friend, and you know, a woman, but, goddammit if the way she touched your shoulder, rambled aimlessly about things she loved, and kissed your cheek and gave you that fucking smirk every time you parted ways didn't turn you on in a way you never could have imagined; and, God, here she was- all of her in front of you and kissing you like she really means to, needs to- and those lips, that skin, everything about her- it is so much better than you dreamed or imagined it would be and you don't want to stop- now and never.

But still, still through your haze, you recognize that she's speaking and even if you don't want to stop you think that maybe she does and you don't want to push this- whatever it is- between you because there is something inside of you that thinks that this- you and her and everything that goes with it- is something life altering that could break your delicate, jigsaw puzzle of a heart. But there's something inside you, too, that tells you, softly, that maybe this-her-was what you were meant to do after all. Because Holly is different and beautiful and you never want to hurt her so you focus in on what she's trying to say through the smattering of your ragged kisses.

"God," she's whispering, angling her head and delving deeper, wider than she has been, "Gail, you taste so good."

And it's your turn to moan and it reverberates in her mouth as you wrap your hands around her back, pressing your chest against hers and plundering her mouth endlessly.

"And how do I taste, Holly?"

You're flirting and it's shameless but then again, this woman's tongue is in your mouth and you're smirking at it all and biting a swollen lip.

And she's gulping air and clambering closer still and speaking with a mindless sort of wanting.

"Just like I thought you would."

And the words hit you low in your stomach, blooming heat down down down in between your legs and it's like it lights a fucking spark in you and you don't know how you stand on legs that feel like they're matchsticks but you do, because you need something more- you need her and you need her pressed up against you now.

It's a short trip- a foot and then two on the floor and one step on an unsteady leg in front of you and you have her pressed against the bar and you're pressed completely against her and she is so warm and lean and feels like home-

And you're pressed shoulder to knee, arms lashed around each other, lips tasting still.

And it's this glorious sort of calm you're feeling even in the midst of the lust and movement and utter chaos of this revelation. And you don't know how long you stand there just drinking each other in, sliding your body against hers, but one moment you're pressing her body against the wood of the bar and the next she's spun you around and you've switched positions and your eyes break open to see her own smirk flicking upwards only to disappear as she claims your 'O' shaped mouth once more.

But her turn in dominance does nothing to deter you, your mind hell bent on taking advantage of this moment, of the feeling of her, in any way you could. So you let your hands coast along the form of her back, her sides, through the thin-ness of her t-shirt and rake blunt nails down knobby ribs, breathing through the gasp she lets out at your through exploration. There's a beat as you pause just below her chest, giving her a moment to feel your intention, waiting for a word, an action, to deter you.

You don't get one.

Holly's hips push into yours, the hand that's not braced on the bar beside your neck moving to the borrowed button down, straight out of Holly's closet, and tracing the buttons there. You moan, your own hands drifting up toward her breasts and cupping one then the other, thumbs drifting over the nipples you feel at the peaks of them as she shifts her thigh between yours, pressing up into the vee of your legs and ripping another moan out of your ruined, rasping throat.

And you're rocking with her, hips shifting and working until you've found a pace together, sparks settling deep in your stomach as pleasure starts to build.

And you're marveling at the sounds that you're both making, all shuddering breath and urgent curses, the sound of them thrumming in your ears and fueling the fire that's started in between your legs with each passing moment. And it takes you by surprise when you feel her warm hand ghosting over your now bare stomach, the buttons of your borrowed shirt now completely unfasted leaving you bare to her eyes, bare to her touch, now only clad in your pants and lacy black bra- a choice you'd cursed when you'd pulled up with her to the batting cages but one you now applauded, the sound of her gasping at the sight of it causing you to answer her delight with an appreciative sound of your own.

She's tugging your hips with her other hand and urging them forward so you're still leaning your back against the counter of the bar but with the rest of your sloped down with arching hips, body now splayed out before her and she's pulling away from your lips but mere inches from your face, her focus shifting and you go to complain but then you see her eyes, the glaze in them, as they shift over to your breasts and then your stomach, the slim line of your hips, see her lip get trapped in between white teeth, see the gulp of her throat as she swallows and then the tongue skirt out over her dry lips and God the way that she looks at you, feels against you. She's scraping her nails against your stomach, agonizingly slow, rib by aching rib, and your hips are jutting on that strong firm thigh that's still pressed against you and it's all you can do to pull air into your neglected lungs but you find the strength to wrap your arms around her neck and press your lips haphazardly to her own neck as she continues to explore the expanse of your stomach.

And she's coasting up now and then she's cupping an aching, lace covered breast in her hand and goddammit it all feels so good and you're panting against her ear, words ripping mindlessly from your lips.

"Goddammit, yes," you're hissing, eyes closing at the feel of her thumb swiping over a hard nipple, "You feel- God, Holly. This is all I've wanted for weeks."

And her grasp falters for a second and you go to apologize, your own words surprising you in their honesty, but then she's bringing both hands to cup your breasts with alternating pressure and it's good, so good, but she's moving hand to thread into your hair and pulling until your breath is hitching and she's guiding your head so it's directly in front of hers, her brow a little furrowed but pleased, you think, her lips twitching into a smile and a slightly quizzical, "yeah?" falling out of her lips.

And you're not quite sure what to say so you nod, her hips moving once more distracting you from much deeper thought. But then her lips are ghosting over your ear and her hand has taken up its kneading once more and she's whispering hotly in your hear.

""That all? You been wanting anything else, Officer?"

And you're trying to breathe and closing your eyes because the way she's talking to you right now, the way her words drip with want and a little bit of mischief, it does things to you, assaults and overcomes you and you can't do anything but gulp for air and let the four weeks of wanting swim in your head.

But then she repeats it, her voice a little harder, the pressure of her hips increasing every passing second and you're gasping into the thin feeling air, words tumbling out your parted lips.

"Just you. Touching me. Kissing me."

A beat as she kisses your throat where the pulse of your heart throbs as she waits, knowing-

"Fucking me."

The words hang in the air. You hear the clock in the kitchen tick one. Twice.

And it's like a dam breaks because she's frantic and rushing to unclasp your bra, hands now desperately scratching skin, lips latched back onto yours, tongue delving deep into the cavern of your mouth and flicking against your own tongue and teeth. And you're reaching for the bottom of her shirt, wanting so badly to pull the cotton up and over her head so you can see and feel that skin but then-

Then the most horrible sound erupts in the hollow of the house, jolting you both, bodies starting and revere breaking.

Holly recognizes it first, stares at you with a gaping mouth and wide eyes for a moment after she's successfully broken away and with blushing cheeks adjusts her glasses with a horribly shaky hand and goes to the door where the sound had apparently originated.

You've never hated an inanimate object more in your life than you hated that fucking doorbell.

And you're cursing because you're bare from the waist up basically and you try to button the shirt up but find your own hands as shaky as hers seemed to be so you settle with folding your hands over your chest and standing awkwardly by the bar where she'd left you.

And she's calling your name and clearing her throat and then Traci is standing before you with upturned eyebrows and a smug smile on her stupid face telling you that your phone is dead or whatever and that's why she just had to come over.

And you're giving her a death glare even as she offers her apologies for the state of your face, gives you the day off the next day per Frank's orders and then tells you more good news- that the dirt bag was going away for a while after the incident in the Penny- and neither of you would have to actually testify or do anything to have to put the bastard away. And her words are professional but her eyes- her fucking eyes are dancing with amusement and she's looking at you like she's won the lottery, offering her sincere (read: insincere, baiting) apologies for interrupting "whatever was going on", the sentence spurring a once silent and frozen Holly to mumble something about tea, moving into the kitchen. And then you're all but pushing a silently laughing Traci out the door with a growled goodnight and then the door is shut and you're standing in the silence of the entry way with an open shirt and you feel so exposed so you button it as best you can- all of four buttons that you can't even be certain are matching with their corresponding holes and then you're moving because it is too quiet and you need to find the woman- Oh, God- the woman you were all but begging to fuck you mere minutes before.

And you find her quite easily, making the tea as promised, kettle on the stove. But the stove isn't on and Holly is leaning against the counter beside it with her head in her hands and you move toward her, stopping a few feet away suddenly shy and uncertain and you try to be quiet but you watch as she jerks even at the slightest clearing of your throat, wide eyes turning to yours as she rights herself.

And you tell her, softly, that Traci is gone and relay the news of your nemesis's incarceration and confession and watch as she tries to smile even through her stricken features.

And then it's so goddamn silent- and you find yourself staring at her and skating your eyes over her heaving chest but the words- the words from before, so bold and easy coming- now failed you and so you're frozen and still just watching and waiting and hoping that this isn't the end of everything.

And she does speak moments later, words spilling quickly from her lips.

"I- Gail, I was thinking- you know, while you were talking- and the before- it was, God- as good as it, uh-"

And she's fidgeting with her glasses and your stomach begins to roll.

"Good but fast, you know? And with everything that's happened tonight I was thinking that maybe- maybe it wasn't good to- go there- because I don't even know what this is and you're- you were straight, the last time we talked, right? And all of this, I- Gail… it might be too much."

And her words are like ice in your veins and it sends a chill down your spine so you stand ramrod straight and find yourself nodding in a robotic sort of rhythm but then you just want to go, your cheeks burning because all of this- it's shattering before your eyes and this person, this person you thought was becoming _your_ person, well, she doesn't want you now, either and it's painful but it's also mortifying in a way that makes you want to run away and crawl some place dark and silent and sleep for hours on end. And as you turn, searching blindly for the keys you'd put somewhere in the expanse of the living room- the coffee table in front of the sofa maybe- you hear the urgent sound of her voice calling you back but you ignore it, the dread in the pit of your stomach driving at your urge to leave.

And you move into the living space and find the FOB where you thought it would be, grabbing the keys with a tight grasp, legs spurring on toward the door.

But she's quick and she's in front of you with wide and watery eyes and you stop a foot or so from her, your eyes snapping down to the floor and struggle to drown the words that she's rambling.

"I mean- God... I didn't mean. I want- I want to talk about this. I do- and I still, you can still stay like you usually do, Gail. But you might feel differently about me than I do you and…As much as I might want to… do some things right now, I think we should be mature about all of this. I mean, I could still want-"

But you're shaking your head and moving past her and you're reaching toward the door and trying to ignore the sad sigh she heaves and the knob is in your hand when you close your eyes and swallow and fight the urge to run for once in your miserable life. And then you're turning and she's turning, too, to look at you and you just take one another in for a moment before you sigh and take a tentative step toward her and speak.

"No, you're right. And, ugh, yeah. On the talk. Maybe- maybe later."

And the words sound hollow but you're trying and she's straining a smile but those tears look so close to dropping and a rush of guilt settles over you so you take another step so you're close enough to touch her, barely.

"Hey," you say, eyes meeting hers, your hand reaching out of its own volition to rest seemingly casually against her clenching hand on the back of the couch.

"We'll… talk."

The words drift there in the air and you feel something shift once more as your hand comes into contact with her own. A jolt of something- fire, desire, fucking destiny, you don't know- snakes up your hand and you want to let go of hers because it almost hurts, the shock of her, but it's suddenly being grasped in her own strong grip and she's trained those eyes on you and they're wide open and surprised and damn it almost defeated because she's looking at your joined hands and then back up at you, like she can't believe- like she can feel it, too.

And she's shaking her head and her eyes are still locked with yours and you are barely able to register the moaned and desperate "oh goddammit" before she's rushing to meet your forward moving body with her own, her lips immediately crashing into yours as her hands wind their way around your waist and lift, your toes barely scraping the ground as she passes her lips over yours once, twice, slipping her tongue in your gasping lips at the third rapid connection.

And you're both moving, rapid, jumbled strides as she guides you further and further until your back meets the hard surface of the front door, a moan leaving your lips as she doesn't stop there, shifting her body as close as she possibly could, opening your legs with needy hands and thrusting her leg back between your thighs for the second time that evening and biting your bottom lip, moaning as your hips take on a steady rhythm once more.

And she's breaking away from your eager lips to bite down the smooth, pale column of your neck and gasping hot breath against it before soothing the nips with a hot tongue.

"God-"

She's panting desperately in your ear, "Gail, God, I- I can't. I can't stop. "

And you're nodding but so fucking confused because not a minute ago she was telling you, you think, anyway, that this wasn't going to work or whatever and now she's got you pinned against the door and she's kissing and touching you like it's the only think she's ever wanted to do. But you need to know because this- this feels like falling and you don't want it to be chalked up to a passionate mistake in the aftermath. You can't- so you speak, words urgent even to your ears.

"What about- what about being mature? You just said we needed to chill like two minutes ago-"

But she's shaking her head and moaning and sealing her lips over yours once more, delivering heavy, want laden kisses on your panting lips and it's all so much but, God not enough-

"Fuck maturity. And 2 minute ago Holly while we're at it. She was _stupid_. I've done a lot of growing since then. Made some life changes."

And a laugh catches in your throat but it twists into a moan because she punctuates her statement with a heavy grind and a grasping hand even as she continues to possess your lips over and over again, the buttons of the shirt you had haphazardly assembled flying off in random directions as she pulls at the fabric, hands immediately coming to slide down your stomach, tracing your ribs again, finding their way back up to your breasts. But this time her fingers deftly flick the clasp, remove the garment along with the ruined shirt, exposing your body to the cool apartment air.

And she's pushing your breast up with her warm hand and flicking the bare nipple with the roughness of her thumb and gasping in your ear and pressing so hard into you still.

And you're not sure why- maybe in consent, maybe in agreeance about the turn of the events- but you're nodding. But then your head goes from moving up and down to thumping back against the hard wood of the door because she's nipping your collarbone and then sweeping that tongue down until she taps lightly against the sensitive swollen skin of your breast. And you look down, watch as she envelops one and then another aching nipple with her hot mouth and it doesn't help the fire in between your legs, her tongue flicking, her mouth now sucking and attentive and so good against you.

"God, Holly- fuck."

And you feel the slight intake of breath against you and you think she's gasping but she's actually barking out a laugh, the realization hitting you when she releases your nipple and begins to speak with a sigh.

"You know, that's actually what I wanted to get back to."

And she's moving fluidly up your body, your throat gulping as you watch her long limbs, her shapely hips, slink up until she's level with you, sinking a hand into your hair and tugging your lips back to hers until they're a hairsbreadth away from her own, speaking with rapid puffs of air against them.

And you focus in on her words, chest gasping when they reach your ears.

"What were we talking about when we got so rudely interrupted? What were you telling me you had been wanting me to do?"

And her words are heavy with lust but also a sort of cockiness that shouldn't turn you on but it fucking does and it sucks because you had- the memory of the words turning your cheeks red with a flush of embarrassment but you make a decision then and there that you can't be bothered because she's moving against you and peeking her tongue out to trace lightly against your bottom lip and you're gasping and shutting your eyes against the onslaught of sensation and grasping her to you, rolling your hips into hers and forcing out your answer to her inquiry.

"God- I want… Jesus, Holly. I said I wanted you to fuck me."

And the answer has her growling low in her throat and swiping her tongue into your mouth and kissing you with abandon and her hand moving in between your shifting legs and you groan full on when she cups you over your jeans before opening the button and taking down the zip there.

And your head is tipped back and all you feel are warm fingers and pressing palms- and you want her so badly so you scrape your nails down her back and relish in the hiss that leaves her lips.

And she's reaching her hand down into your jeans and ghosting fingers over heavy fabric and gasping into your, ear, trapping it between sharp teeth, because you're so fucking wet and she can feel it soaking through the fabric of your underwear. And you're shifting your hips, trying to force her to connect with where you need her to be and God, just trying to get closer, and she's smiling at you and taking the hand that's not currently buried in your jeans and cupping your ass, tracing down your left thigh, and pulling it around her waist.

And then it's all rocking and heavy tongues and lost words.

Because she's pushing against your clit just the way that you like it through your underwear and nipping down your throat, and, God, telling you how much she wants you and how much she's thought of all of this since the day you met.

And the words leave you clenching and gasping and wanting all the more and you don't really know what possess you but you hook your other leg around her hip and hitch yourself to her, arms clutching at her neck, lips now slowly tasting once and then twice before you speak against them.

"I want you inside of me."

A loud groan. A thorough, smoldering kiss.

And then you're pulling back and leaning against the door and watching as she drops her gaze to take you- all bare breasts and lacy underwear- in with white teeth snaring a plump lip

"Couch. Holly. Take me- take me to the couch."

And she's nodding and moving backward and it's awkward but you're kissing her again and it's a little messy and a lot fumbly but it doesn't matter because you're there and being laid down on its familiar plush surface and you panic for a split second because she doesn't follow you straight down but breathe a sigh of relief as she comes into your view, clambering over you with a steadfast determination. And you're making a noise somewhere between a sigh and a gasp as she blankets your body with hers and moves her hips into the cradle of your own and puts either hand on the sofa that sinks beside your head to brace herself.

And she's looking at you with a look you can't place once more, eyes scanning over your face, brow furrowed.

She's ghosting a light hand over the bruise over your eye, the slightly inflamed skin surrounding the stitches. And it's soft and it's almost reverent and you feel yourself coming undone.

"God," you sigh, and you can feel the way you must look right now- all hooded eyes and desperate lines on your flushed face, "Holly, please. Kiss me."

And when she does, it's bruising and leaves you panting and you're too goddamn hot so you begin to pull at your jeans, the fabric moving down your legs with ease after one of her hands moves down to assist you.

And then the underwear, soaked, ruined, come down your legs and she's settled against you as you're open and wet and whimpering against her lips to please- do it, just do _anything_ as long as-

And it's all superfluous because she's opening her eyes against yours and telling you to open your own.

And you do and watch as she tilts her forehead so it's against yours and murmurs her agreement against your begging lips and then her fingers are pushing up and into you.

The gasp echoes against the hollow walls of the townhouse, the cavern of her eager and panting mouth.

A moment as she looks into your eyes, tells you how fucking good you feel wrapped around her, waits for your gentle nod and then- sparks and then fire as she begins a punishing, firm rhythm. And you're looking into her eyes, somehow unable to break the gaze (but then again you don't really want to) and moving your hips to match the pace of her hand. Her lithe and clever fingers.

And you gasp into the small centimeters between your and her kiss swollen lips over and over again, breath hitching and she begins to skate her thumb over your clit with every thrust of her firm hand. Your heart pounds in the rattled cage of your chest as she begins to build you up, the orgasm beginning to crest.

"Holly, God, you're- you're going to make me come."

And the look on her face- the clouding of her vision- your head thumps against the soft cushion behind you and feel another gush of wetness between your legs at the sight of it.

"Yes. God. I want you to. Come for me, Gail".

One more strong thrust of her hand, one more brush of her thumb against your clit and holy fuck-

Your eyes are closing because you can't take it anymore and your orgasm is flooding every part of your body and actually curling your goddamn toes and you've never been much of a scream, the sound you make as she curls her fingers and brings you up and over into another close but explosive second, echoes far more than it should have for a woman who had neighbors is such close proximity.

And then she's collapsing on top of you and murmuring sweet, sometimes teasing words into your skin and nuzzling her nose in the side of your face after her labored breathing has calmed.

And you sigh, sated and spent but still-

The nose, the lips travel down the sweat soaked slope of your neck, the tender skin, one of your favorite spots, where your shoulder meets your neck. She paused there, lips pursing once, twice.

The breath has begun to puff quickly out of your lips again.

You let out a cry when she sinks her teeth rather hard in the skin, hips jolting.

And you can't believe you're ready to come again, to let this- this fucking gorgeous woman fuck you all over again- but you also can't believe, feeling her rock above you, that she has close and you're panting out your protest as she's soothing the wound with a repentant tongue.

"Take your clothes off, Holly," you demand, voice hoarse, mouth suddenly dry.

And it takes a moment before she's pushing up and over you, sitting back on her legs that are straddling over your waist, and reaching underneath that stupidly low v neck that wouldn't stop attracting your eyes, to pull it over her head. She throws it away somewhere over her shoulder and quickly does the same with sports bra that she and on.

"So very practical, Dr. Stewart," you smirk, hands and eyes now focused and skirting up the expanse, down then up, of Holly Stewart's tan and taut and tender skin. You cup her breasts, lick your lip as a thumb swipes over a hardened nipple.

"Yeah, well, give me a heads up the next time you decide to seduce me. Maybe then I'll wear something a little sexier."

But you don't answer because you know she's teasing but she's saying that maybe there will be a next time and now, even though you are ready to come apart underneath her hands again (and again and again and again), your brain is now focused on something else- something you've only allowed yourself to think about on the loneliest and most desperate of nights.

And so you're pushing up with your hips and moving up to kiss her and swallow her yelp of surprise as you push up and forward reversing your positions on the couch and blanketing her body with yours.

"I'll be sure to let you know next time, Nerd, promise," you whisper breathlessly, lips and tongue wrapping around a stiff nipple.

And then she's gasping and she's pulling at her jeans and you're helping her and making some smartass comment about team work making the dream work and dying a little because, oh God, you're a fucking nerd yourself, but she's laughing and doing the same with her underwear and then she's bare beneath you and you're pressed skin to skin and God this is-

And you press your thigh between her legs and gasp at the warm wetness you find there.

And then she's begging and you're trying to focus on what you were thinking of before- before she was all smooth skin and lean muscle.

And you remember and moan yourself at the thought and it reverberates inside of her mouth as you lurch up to kiss her as deeply as you can, and she's panting a heady "what"- and you're shaking your head and telling her you'll show her instead.

The journey down Holly's body isn't slow.

A quick nip at a breast, a kiss at a jutting hip.

And then you're parting her thighs and looking at her, at the depths of her, and you don't want to wait so before you can even think about it, you're swiping your tongue through Holy's slick, wet folds and moaning at the taste. And she's cursing out into the air, grasping your hair, pleading, but you (and you suspect her as well) don't know for what so you simply follow that pass of your tongue with another, much slower one, stopping to engage your lips to suck at the hardness of her clit.

Her hips nearly shoots off the couch and you move your hand to grasp hard on her hip, pulling down.

You pull away for a moment to look up at her looking back at you, lip trapped once more, and saying your name in question.

"You taste so good, Hol," you say, the words dripping, the tone shattering her, causing her hips to jolt once more. You return your focus to her clit with your lips and tongue and begin to take on a steady rhythm before retreating to enter her before skirting back to bat at her clit with her tongue once more. And you know you've never done this with a woman before but you think you might be doing a pretty decent job if the panting cries and appreciative shouts of affirmation are any indication.

And she's gasping but she's speaking and you clench as they thrum in your ears.

"And how do I taste, Gail," she pants and lightly grinds down on your aching mouth?

A wicked smirk you know she can feel against her.

"Just like I thought you would."

And she's gulping and a loser at her own game because she's the one that's breathless and begging and you're sucking on her clit but sinking eager fingers into her and pumping them fast and hard and she's watching you with open, almost shocked eyes and then she's gone, your fingers curling and your tongue flicking, and coming with a keening cry and a rigid back, clenching hard around your hand.

You return the favor from earlier and simply collapse upon her after you've crawled your way back up her body.

And she sighs and shifts a little bit and brings her hands around your back to hold you to her as you settle comfortably on her, slipping your head in the crook of her neck, mindful of the stitches, inhaling the scent of her slightly sweaty skin.

You don't really, usually cuddle but this, it's- different. Simple. Home.

And you begin to fade away into the darkness of sleep and you think she is, too, and you know that when you both wake up you'll need to talk and yeah you're terrified but you don't want to run and maybe that's something.

You thank her as she pulls the blanket off the back of the couch

A few moments before you fade completely, you hear her soft voice.

"Gail," She's whispering.

"Mm," is the only response she gets.

"Gail- do you need- is your eye? I didn't hurt you…"

You cut her off with a negative grumble.

"Are you sure, I-"

"Holly," you speak to her, words slurred with sleep with loud enough for her to hear muffled though they were, "Sleep. We can marvel at my bruise of a face and astounding skills in bed tomorrow."

And there's just a chuckle and then silence and you drift off into warm and strong and arms. And things were uncertain and impulsive and, well, you might be a little gay but you're fairly certain that this person that you're pressed to, skin to skin, is the person that you might want to spend always with so you let yourself sink into the sleep and the silence and warmth that is Holly Stewart. Holly Stewart who you'd gotten punched, pummeled, for. Holly Stewart, who you'd do it for again and again.

A small, almost routine kiss on a pale shoulder.

And then, you take a breath, and rest, hopeful for morning.

End

* * *

Let me know what you think! Thanks!

Whit


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